//the thoughts are mostly really impulses.silk & gold. petal & stone. snake scales & lace. the words are not there. only in a silent way. my throat protesting, jagged & hurting. wants a whiskey before we sleep. i drift of, fall asleep, to musicand a hand holding the small, soft, round moons,that our artisan of horn & bone; our dexterous poet, has made for me on bali. one rests peacefully. one is wide awake. remains so until morning.forever singing the language of the island of gods.i wake to feathers.forgotten they were still there in bed when i fell asleep.they are sweet to wake up to, - & i know then i have to switch on the autopilot. that button lights up red and carry fast beats of music,almost frantic, fingers working by themselvesover curves and highlights in editing.my work. doesn’t feel like work. feels like life. the thoughts are mostly really impulses. silk & gold. petal & stone. snake scales & lace.and scorched defective bridges of fear, left only in smoke behind me.

h//this weekend i'm sitting by the table at a party. feathers, easter bunnies, candles, soaped white wooden floors,tulips, divine food, ~ & birdsong that reaches all the way in.- how was bali this time, hannah?someone asks. i hear myself sighing with pleasure. - magic.. always magic. but more and more so.- but how? how so ?asks someone else. - what is it that is so magical about it..?! m a g i c a l. i know it may sound like a word for some, ~ one that.. has lost its weight.not for me. granted; quite a lot is magic in life, i think. but at no other time {okay, maybe some time. other day story.} is it as true for me,as when i talk about bali.- it's the people, i say firstly.- their smiles go all the way up into their eyes& all the way in.. into me. every time. always. they’re just so.. tremendously beautiful. - they speak english ? asks a third. i smile, inwardly, because i actually have toconsider it for a second. the language in which we talk to each other ?we're just.. talking, i’m thinking.- mm, pretty good they do, i reply. they are.. most of all they’re so.. naturally and immediately as if.. attuned to kindness. they’re only l i k e that. everything, everything can be solved & understood then.all encounters are possible. - hot there, huh ? asks someone with a whiff & a wink.- yes, it's hot, i smile. magically humid ! we have to laugh.- .. and what about the rain periods ? what’s the rain like ? i already have a day before me, in my mind's eye. - we've never been there for any of them.. and we havn’t.. yet. but i’m thinking about a day,on our last trip. this one. eternalized.when it rained for a few wonderful hours. and yes, what about the rain ?what do you do, when it rains on the island of the gods ?from the car you search the streets, with bali coffee in cardboard cups,and your own & dearest ketut at the wheel. because you have photographs; put in frames,of the immortalized ones from the previous journey.those who got into your heart, ~ & stayed there, for very special reasons.you dry tears from your cheeks constantly, when ketut doesn’t see,because he is just so amazing.. the way he insists torun in & out of the car, in the rain, to ask people along the way.you take each other's hands, blindly & from habit, on the seat,while staring out into the rain onto these people,these people you don’t really know, yet you know them,they who, with huge smiles for each other, sweeping gestures,~ & pensive faces; is equally determined as you, to find the couple from the flower field.you’re holding your breath and hope in your chest;to get to see that they are still alive, get to give them their portraits,money.. and hopefully new opportunities.you bathe in the rain. you turn your face towards itand close your eyes; save it like that. always.you take swimming strokes among frangipani's & raindrops.you feel that you are truly living. with at least every percentof yourself that is also water.and you lie on white massage bunks next to each other,in a relaxed room, that holds you, and the scent of flowersand candlelight. you drift off for little moments under soft hands,just perfectly grazing coconut cream, ~ & hot towels.you wake for small moments, just lying like that, on a cheek each,facing each other, lost in each other's gaze;the one reflecting and knowing all about the happiness of the other,in eyes glistening from gratitude in the obscure.

it is said that life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass,it’s about learning to dance in the rain. and that is precisely what is magical about bali. it reminds you that the sun, the storm, the rain, all of it, everything, is a dance. h

some things, or should i say, - some places, some people, some moments;they don’t have any words that do them justice.i won’t tell you my dream{you can bore anyone to tears doing that}.
instead i’ll just tell you that just then, when we wade into the sea,with bags on our heads, - & skirts gathered in loose knots,when we take the speed boat & see bali become smaller, fast,beyond the whitecaps,when we go ashore a while later,with bags on our heads, - & skirts gathered in loose knots,when we jump on the back of scootersand firmly embrace those we never met with an easeas if we knew eachother always,when we’ve, especially when we’vedriven for a while on dusty roads;narrow and tucked in between palm trees and brushwood,- & an arrow shaped wooden sign proclaims that,with a sharp turnwe’re now taking off down towards dream beach,when i, in wonderment, look around on the fly,see stunning huts of sun-bleached straw & windswept wood;reaching for the sky up on high poles, - then that place could’ve been called anything,but of course it's called dream beach.i have that overwhelming sense, that i’ve onlyexperienced a very few times in my life so far;that i’ve been here before.though i’ve never set foot here.
for this place i have dreamt of.the he in the rearview mirror smiles at me.i shake my head and laugh. he just smiles.maybe it's not that there are no words that can do justice.perhaps no words are needed at all.i don’t recall that there were ever wordsin the dream.

since then i’ve had to surrender.

there is no longer any way to live my life in a

complete way, - without the island of the gods in it.

bali.

it has touched my heart so unexpectedly.

sure, it carry the sound of paradise, in just the name alone.

nevertheless, i was totally unprepared for feeling

like i do for the island itself. for the people.

each time it gets harder and harder to leave

and feels more and more empty, when we’re back 'home'.

last time i fell to my knees on the paved path in the garden,

as soon as the taxi drove off and i was alone.and i cried. and cried.

maybe that's one of those things you shouldn’t tell people,but so be it.

i felt totally lost and completely found,

all at the same time.

and there is a ravine in between,

a lot to be held inside just one body.

and it’s this whole body that misses it.misses an entire island. longs to be where words are not needed.much love,h

beautiful light and the most suitable words, in the darkest of corners.

there are breaks only for coffee {we grind the kopi luwak beans i bought

on bali. i’ll come back to that.} and whiskey.

and so evening floats into morning, mingles with starry night;

where i drift in & out of sleep

with candles allowed to keep burning.

much more that is allowed to burn. and music.

a whole brand new album of music, filled to the covers with

significance, but just mine for now.

you who are regularly here, know how much i

like the music of siblings angus & julia stone.

this is now the one spinning, - and spinning me.

at first there is something about her voice that chafe a bit.

but once it sinks in, on repeat, it's more than all okay.

on massively high volume. so that the ball of thread in there

is honeycombed. so much soul in a simple piano riff

and perfect drumbeats, echoing heartbeats.

i dance alone. the happy of simplicity.

it's such a beautiful thing that.difficult to share without it becoming a flat cliché,but nevertheless equally at least as true.people's solitary moments.one of the most beautiful things i know.without really knowing.and in just that lies the beauty really.like all of this, however now shared.a sunday eternalized.all candles burning and outside the soldiers cottage’shandsome old windows; the light shifts stunningly.i have a glass of whiskey attending, one that canget to stay for hours, got no ice anyway.bali lingers on bronzed skin.i pick up one of the scent cards from qatar airport.we fell in love with the mightiest of perfume bottles ever, there,- in the concourse of black head scarvesand white long dresses sweeping stone floors.we backed away, despite our tradition to always buya new scent each, a leaving- bali-comfort in spray form.the cards still carry scent, i realize now.... and christian dior, how you’ve flourished with this one.
i put on my N.Y. transit token. smell that too.{this mania to take in the scent of everything. where did i get that from?}it doesn’t really have a scent, but a memory nonetheless powerful.i think of the twin towers and our magic midsummer nightin the Greatest Bar on Earth, at the very top floor of the north tower.i remember piano music. and my vertigo in front of the windows.the height. the steel construction. my heart ache a little.i fiddle with the small things & carefully touch the big thoughts.it's such a beautiful thing that.people's solitary moments.